Shards
by nymphxdora
Summary: She is to be married to another, against her wishes. He isn't sure that he can deal with it. Both of them turn to firewhiskey.


**Shards**

_Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to J.K. Rowling_

**_Winner of the Randomly Generated Prompt Competition on HPFC, Nominee for the 2014 Hallows Awards in Diagon Alley II (Best Pre-Golden Trio Era)_**

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><p>She stands in front of the mirror.<p>

Staring back at her is a woman she barely recognises. The tall, lithe figure, the ebony curls —those are all the same as she remembers. But the regret in her eyes changes her face in way she cannot explain.

Today is her wedding day. If anything, she should be happy. She's been dreaming about this since she was a little girl—played the event out in her mind's eye more times than she can count. And it promises to be a magical ceremony like the ones in her dreams, it truly does. Helga has made sure of that—the students have made sure of that. It will be a grand event.

But she doesn't want it. She doesn't want the man she is about to marry.

She had seen it coming—he was the only one who, in her mother's eyes, was truly eligible. He came from a good family, a _respected _family. His bravery and prowess on the battlefield and here, within Hogwarts, was nothing to be snorted at. And it could be worse—at least, if anything, she is marrying a close friend.

But she doesn't love him. Not in that way. Not in the way she loves another.

She closes her eyes briefly and when she reopens them, her gaze focuses on a discarded bottle of firewhiskey lying in the corner of the room. On an impulse, she marches over, grabs it and takes a gulp. It's the only way she'll be able to make it through the day.

She picks up a pair of earrings from her dresser and examines them. Pearls—beautiful, expensive pearls that would match her flowing white dress well. She almost puts them on, before remembering where she got them, who they were a gift from. She almost wears them anyway, but can't fasten them without her stomach filling with guilt. It would be a slap in the face to wear them. For both of them.

For Godric, it would be a reminder that her heart truly rested with another. And for Salazar, it would be a reminder that no matter what he did, no matter how many expensive gifts he bought her, it would never be enough. There was no way that he would be able to prove to Rowena's mother that he was worthy of her daughter, that despite the supremacist attitudes of his family that she so looked down upon, he was noble enough to marry Rowena. For her mother, he would never be noble enough. That is why today, she is marrying Godric, and not Salazar.

She puts the earrings on the dresser and picks up another pair that Helga gave her. They aren't as pretty, but they are much safer. At least she won't be hurting anyone more than she already is.

The door opens and closes behind her with a soft click. _Helga_. "I'm not ready yet," she says, laughing, trying to feign some kind of happiness to put Helga's mind at ease. She turns around, still fixing the back of the earring, and almost drops it when she sees who it is.

It isn't Helga.

"Salazar," she says his name with surprise, with fear, with pain. The façade of cheerfulness drops away—she doesn't need to pretend with him.

He doesn't smile. "Rowena." His gaze is mesmerising and as he meets her eyes, she feels her breath hitch slightly in her throat.

"You shouldn't be here," she says, heart racing. "I'm to be married soon," she averts her eyes, not sure if she can bear to see the agony that this will cause him.

"I know," he says, and she realizes that she doesn't need to look at him to feel his pain. It's audible- it's wrapped around his voice, tainting his every word. "But you aren't married yet."

"Someone might come in," she whispers.

He pulls his wand from his jacket and points it towards the door, sealing it through a non-verbal spell. "No they won't."

She's barely had time to inhale before his lips are on hers, his arms are around her waist and he's kissing her like he never has before. She takes a moment to register what's happening and then her arms wrap around his neck and her hands run through his hair as she pulls him closer, desperate. The kiss deepens and she finds herself staggering backwards as he pushes her against the dresser, the wood leaving indents on the small of her back.

His lips leave her mouth and she lets out a tiny moan as he trails kisses down her neck and in the hollow of her throat. She pulls his lips back up to hers and they crash together in a sea of longing, passion and desire. She knows that this will be the last time and she doesn't want it to end.

But it does. They break apart when they hear the knock on the door, when Helga says, tentatively, "Rowena? Can I come in?"

"Just a minute," Rowena calls back. She turns to Salazar and whispers, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says.

Before she can reply, he's gone; morphed into a snake and slithered out of the open window.

She takes another gulp of the firewhiskey. And then another.

She finishes the bottle.

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><p>The ceremony is lush, sparkling and beautiful. Helga holds her train as her father leads her through the Great Hall, through the pews of students and friends. Godric is waiting by the altar—looking smart and regal. Salazar stands behind him, the best man.<p>

As Rowena takes her place at the altar, she sees her mother sitting at the front of the hall. She gives Rowena an approving nod, and Rowena feels her confidence falter.

It passes by in a blur of words. She is faintly aware of the proceedings around her; she smiles and nods when she has to, when she is required to, but her heart isn't truly in it. She manages to say 'I do', to slide the ring onto Godric's finger, but she isn't looking at him—rather, at the man behind him.

When Godric kisses her, it's stiff. It's awkward, yet applause still erupts. Rowena wonders whether the audience is merely pretending not to notice.

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><p>It's Helga who finds him.<p>

Night has fallen; the moon casts its rays across the grounds, coating everything in a silvery layer of black, white and grey. He is alone, in his quarters, drowning his sorrows in gulp after gulp of firewhiskey.

He started off pouring the rich, golden-red liquid into a glass. He doesn't remember when he stopped, when he started drinking directly from the bottle. It's easier—no pauses means that no pain has time to creep in. Three bottles lie discarded on the floor—one was thrown against the wooden panels with such force that it's shattered, sending fragments of glass across the room. With the amount he's consumed, it's no wonder that he's burning, but at least he's numb.

He's reaching for a fourth bottle when Helga plucks it from his hands. He's so drunk that he didn't even notice her come in, and he doesn't have the energy to protest as she gathers up his remaining stash of firewhiskey and takes it away. She comes back in, feels his forehead and tuts.

She presses a cold towel to his forehead and makes him lie down, saying something about a raging fever and how she understands that he's celebrating the marriage, but he really shouldn't drink so much. That almost makes him laugh_—celebrating. _How naïve Helga is.

Celebrating.

The pain is coming back now, sneaking its tendrils around his heart. He reaches, unconsciously, for a bottle, to take another sip to numb himself again, but Helga shakes her head and slaps his hand away.

"Go to sleep, Salazar," she says before she leaves. "It'll be better in the morning, I promise."

He doesn't think it'll get better. Not ever.

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><p><strong>AN: **This was written for the 'Randomly Generated Prompt Competition' on the Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges forum. The prompt was firewhiskey.

Anyway, this is the first time I've ever written anything in the Founder's Era, so it was fun to try something new! I hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a review if you did!


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